


Night Of Your Life

by AlexSeanchai (EllieMurasaki)



Category: Hellenistic Religion & Lore, Only If for a Night - Florence + the Machine (Song)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/pseuds/AlexSeanchai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And I heard your voice / as clear as day</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merfilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/gifts).



> Thank you to my marvelous beta! You know who you are :)

Lynn wandered down the hallway of her high school, wondering vaguely why she was there. Hadn’t she graduated, years ago? Hadn’t she worn this very tux to the prom?

This particular hallway, along the side of the auditorium, held the photos of the top students in various subjects. Lynn skimmed the names as she walked: nobody she knew, though some of the faces were familiar—

She stopped dead at a particular smiling face with a dandelion in her hair. Angela Hall, class of ‘10, top scores in AP Latin Literature. Lynn had been so proud of her girlfriend when she’d heard that, though (being in AP Latin Lit herself) she’d pretended fury at Angela beating her out…

Angela, whose obituary was the first Lynn had known of her loss.

“Lynn,” said a voice she recognized. Lynn looked to the left: Daeira stood there, her glittering gold-and-pink prom gown as perfectly out-of-place as Lynn’s tux. Lynn knew Daeira, of course: the prom queen from Lynn’s class, who’d been voted into that position because everyone knew and liked her, because Daeira knew and liked everyone.

“I’m sorry, Lynn,” said Daeira, ever so gently. “I know how much you loved her. How much you love her still.”

“She’s gone,” Lynn choked out, her eyes suddenly blurred with tears. “She’s—” Dreams of wedding bells and children’s yells, doing household chores and visiting distant shores, gone to mist at the sight of the obituary.

“I know,” said Daeira.

Lynn took a step towards Daeira. Another. Her knees wobbled, and then she was half-kneeling awkwardly on the floor, arms around Daeira’s legs, tears staining the golden fabric of Daeira’s gown.

“Lynn,” said another voice, painfully familiar.

Lynn’s gaze shot up; the tears in her eyes vanished almost as though they’d never been. “Angela?”

No Angela stood there, though Daeira wore a knowing look.

A breath of music slipped out of the auditorium door: _Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye..._ “Lynn,” Angela’s voice repeated. “You need to concentrate.”

Why concentrate? What practical use, in this time and place—but Lynn could do that, she supposed, releasing Daeira and standing up. Angela’s bright smile at one of Lynn’s gymnastics triumphs. The sound of her laughter—Angela never could deliver a joke with aplomb. The frustrated little growls Angela made when her latest reading material disappointed her.

“Hey,” said Angela, and Lynn turned. There she was, garbed in a white gown that could equally well be prom or bridal, striking against her dark skin. “Promise me something, Lynn,” Angela continued. “Don’t do anything…unwise.”

“What do you mean?” Lynn asked, surprised her voice held steady.

Angela smiled sadly. “Anything that will hurt you more than you’re already hurting.”

“That isn’t fair,” said Lynn.

“Promise me, Lynn,” Angela repeated, stepping forward to take one of Lynn's hands in her own, holding out a handkerchief with the other to dry Lynn's tears.

“I promise,” said Lynn. “Nothing unwise. Nothing you wouldn’t want me to do.”

“Good,” said Angela. “I’ll hold you to that. I just…don't want you to hurt yourself. You have before, when something in your life’s gone wrong.”

True, but _so_ not the point. “Nothing’s wrong,” Lynn murmured. “How could there be? You’re here.” She slid her hand out of Angela’s grasp, brought the other up to hold Angela’s hand in both of hers, reveling in the beat of Angela’s pulse.

“Lynn, I’m sorry,” said Daeira behind her. “Angela has to go on. You have to stay.”

Lynn turned far enough to glare at Daeira. “Who are you that you get to make that decision?”

Daeira said nothing.

“Lynn,” said Angela, and instantly Lynn’s attention returned to her. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” said Lynn.

“At my funeral,” Angela said, and Lynn’s insides iced over. “Bring a coin—a penny will do. Make sure it’s buried with me. To pay the ferryman.”

“Yeah,” said Lynn. “Okay. I can do that.”

Angela smiled. Looking past Lynn to Daeira, she said, “Majesty? Since she and I are already here—”

“I understand,” said Daeira. “Don’t overstay.”

Angela grinned, bright. “Come on, Lynn,” she said as music started up down the hallway. “They’re playing our song.”

* * *

Lynn woke to an empty bed. Angela’s warmth was gone as if it had never been.

In silence Lynn rose, used the toilet, brushed her teeth, showered. Mundane acts of a mundane life; water, drops of water pummeling her skin, water water everywhere and not a drop to—

Lynn’s phone pinged. A notification from Google Calendar: Angela’s funeral. Eleven am.

Had Atlas, she wondered, ever found the weight of the world too heavy to bear another moment? Ah, for the bliss of a taste of the waters of Lethe!

But she’d made two promises: she remembered them clearly. A coin for the ferryman. Attending the funeral was payment of sorts for being able to dance late into the night with Angela’s ghost, and spend the rest of the night in her lover’s arms.

_If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!_

Lynn dressed in her new suit (she’d never worn a tux in her life) and moved several coins from her change jar to her pocket.

* * *

At the cemetery, birds sang. Squirrels darted up trees. Wildflowers soaked up the sun. On a Saturday like today, Lynn might have texted Angela to ask if she wanted to head down to the park for a picnic, or the pool for a swim. Angela would have said a day so full of life shouldn't be wasted indoors.

Lynn found the site of Angela’s grave easily enough. The marker wasn’t there yet, but it was the only freshly dug gravesite.

On impulse, Lynn turned a few cartwheels around the hole; coins scattered from her pocket. She did handstands, coming down as soon as she began to wobble. She danced to music no one heard. The cemetery itself, in its profusion of liveliness, was celebrating Angela’s life; shouldn’t Lynn?

She stopped when the priest approached. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

Lynn shrugged and started to collect her coins and a few wildflowers from the grass.

She stood in silence, aside from Angela’s family, during the Rite of Committal. The only people who appeared to notice Lynn’s presence were Daeira and a young man whose sandalwood-hued skin and long nose suggested he might be Daeira’s brother.

At last Angela’s uncle said, “May the love of God and the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ bless and console us and gently wipe every tear from our eyes: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” said Angela’s family.

“Go in the peace of Christ,” said the priest.

“Thanks be to God,” said Angela’s family. Angela’s mother stepped up to lay a white rose on the black coffin.

Lynn joined the line of mourners, flowers in one hand, the other closed tightly. She felt the glares of the people behind her hot on the back of her head, but kept her chin high. When she got to the coffin, she opened both her hands: the dandelions fell onto the heap of white roses, golden and bright, and two coins clattered onto the wood of the coffin.

“Coins,” Lynn declared, “for the ferryman.”

“How _dare_ you!” exclaimed Angela’s mother.

“I could ask you that,” Lynn said without taking her eyes off the dandelions. “You know perfectly well Angela wasn’t Catholic any more than I am. A funeral Mass is an offense to her memory.”

The priest snatched the coins off the coffin.

“Get out,” ordered Angela’s father.

Lynn shrugged. “As you will, sir.” At least two of the coins she’d brought rested under the coffin now, anyway. She’d done as Angela had asked.

Behind the cluster of family, Daeira smiled at Lynn. Between Daeira and her brother stood Angela, wearing the same white gown. Angela took the young man’s arm and, with a glance back at Lynn, let him escort her into a tree’s shadow and fade from sight. Lynn’s gaze followed; when she looked back at Daeira, the woman was gone.

In her car, Lynn got out her phone and Googled “Daeira”. The first hit was theoi dot com, which, in the second paragraph of the page, read _The name Daeira was also an Eleusinian title for the goddess Persephone. Daeira may have been identified with the Eleusinian Hekate, who a few sources appear to suggest was the consort of Khthonian Hermes, Guide of the Dead._

Lynn shivered.


End file.
